


Haute Torture

by HenryMercury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Gen, Post-Second War with Voldemort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-28 23:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13281954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: The day the thong finds its way into Narcissa's closet is the day she decides she's had enough of Pansy Parkinson living under her roof.





	Haute Torture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeitgeistic (faire_weather)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/gifts).



> A late birthday present for Zeit.

The day the thong finds its way into Narcissa's closet is the day she decides she's had enough of Pansy Parkinson living under her roof. It's black and fairly plain—only decorated by a small satin bow at the front—but it's still scandalously skimpy and a Muggle fashion at that. She has a brusque discussion with the house elves about how the offending item could have been put with _her_ things, and then banishes it.

She's been patient with Parkinson over the last several weeks, wanting Draco to have whatever comforts he can obtain. Pansy may be uncouth, but for Draco's various manias and downswings she has an admirable amount of patience. Narcissa has seen them sleeping together, curled up in Draco's bed, but she knows they're not _sleeping together_ ; never has she met a gayer young man than her son. Draco has been doing better lately, though. Narcissa thinks he could get by with less of Pansy. It isn't healthy for him to become so attached to someone inappropriate.

"Your family must be missing you," she says, lightly, at dinner.

Pansy gives a smooth shrug of the shoulders as she picks up her silver soup spoon, and says, "Oh, I doubt it. They're very busy."

Narcissa has never known the Parkinsons to be too busy for their daughter no matter her antics and demands. The shame now attached to Pansy's name specifically, Narcissa surmises, must be making her present disconnection more palatable for them.

Narcissa has long harboured a deep disdain for those who are quick to snap limbs off their own family trees. She did not like the looming threat as a young Black, and when she first held her baby son in her arms she demanded Lucius swear never to disown him for politics or sport. Already harried and intimidated by his role as spectator in the birthing process, Lucius' acquiescence was not difficult to gain.

Narcissa will not turn a girl with nowhere else to go out to fend for herself—will not be like her mother or aunt in this respect—so she leaves the subject for the moment.

 

 

When a new black thong appears in her drawer along with a bright red lacy one, she wonders whether she has been too merciful. The house elves strenuously deny having sent the items to her rooms, and they are not prone to dishonesty. Perhaps ignoring the first unwelcome stranger in her closet had been a mistake.

This time, Narcissa takes out a self-inking quill and selects a small piece from her neatly wrapped bundle of parchments inlaid with fragrant herbs. Sage feels appropriate.

 _Miss Parkinson,_ she writes. _Please allow me to return a few belongings I believe you have misplaced._

She gives the note to one of the house elves and instructs him to lay it on Pansy's pillow along with the underthings.

Pansy meets her eyes over dinner that evening and, while Draco is preoccupied with the _Prophet_ 's latest Potter coverage, has the gall to _wink_ at Narcissa. Narcissa presents a cool exterior as she finishes her steak, under which she attempts to process whatever message Parkinson is sending to her. Reluctantly, she concludes that she hasn't enough information to make it out with any certainty.

 

 

The next intruder is not a thong but a camisole. Black, and lacy at the deep V of its neckline. This item is not so Muggle—just a style preferred by younger witches. Not that Narcissa is _old_. She'd still look good in this; she's aware of that. At least as good as Pansy with her heavy makeup and, from what she's glimpsed, _tattoos_. (Narcissa cannot believe the girl's solidarity with her son would go so far as acquiring regrettable markings, so Pansy must actually think the ink is tasteful.)

Narcissa catches her own eye in the mirror, looks herself up and down, suddenly aware of how her black tailored robes cover every inch of skin from chin to wrist to ankle. Impulsively, she waves their numerous buttons undone. This is a practiced motion. In a less practiced but still graceful one, she dons the camisole.

It's very flattering, albeit in a risqué way she has no use for anymore, what with Lucius gone. The tapering of her torso from shoulders to waist is smoothed by the silky fabric. Her breasts are drawn up and inward enough to create a suggestive shadow of cleavage. She cannot imagine Pansy in this; Narcissa's chest is moderate in size, and already threatens to spill out the top if she makes a wrong move. How Parkinson has ever fit her _ample bosom_ inside it is as great a mystery as Narcissa has ever known.

At the snap of Narcissa's fingers, an elf appears.

"Adjust the warming charms in the dining room," she instructs, and the elf nods his bobble head vigorously. "Put them up by at least five degrees."

 

 

Narcissa can see poor Draco sweating from across the long table. His face is pink and damp right to the roots of his hair, just like his father's would get on unseasonably warm days, or in moments of pressure. Narcissa's face does not flush so easily, but the only reason she isn't sweating under her heavy robes is the series of charms she cast on her skin before dressing.

"It's positively tropical in here," Pansy comments, apparently unfazed by the heat. "I _do_ so like a break from the English winter."

"It _is_ hot. But not in a good way," Draco replies. "The charms must be malfunctioning somehow. Surely you can feel it, Mother—those robes are woollen!"

The robes _are_ woollen, and it wouldn't have taken a keen eye to notice. They are thick, textured, and shimmer with snow- and sleet-repelling magic that does away with any breathability they may have had. Gunmetal grey and ice blue, they are definitely winter clothes.

"It is a little stuffy," Narcissa agrees easily. "I apologise; I shall have words with the elves about this." She transfigures her dessert fork into a delicate fan and beats it a couple of times to send cool gusts across her face.

"For Merlin's sake," Draco says, exasperated, "I'm taking this robe off. We're at home and it's not like we have guests to look proper for. Why should we suffer?" He stands, his chair gliding out behind him as it senses the movement.

Narcissa raises her eyebrows at her son as he undresses, and then points her look at Pansy.

"Oh, come on," Pansy says with a challenging twinkle in her eye. "There's no need to be a nun about it. Like Draco said: we're at home."

And so Narcissa stands, maintaining eye contact with the girl who presumes to believe Narcissa's house is _her home_. She unbuttons the heavy robe slowly, decisively. When it falls open, tight riding-style pants and the confiscated camisole are all that are underneath.

This time Narcissa registers surprise in Pansy's face. Pansy's eyes trip down to Narcissa's chest, her hips, her chest again, before they can be dragged back up to look her in the eye.

"I suggest you decide whether or not you are going to be scandalised by something and stick to that assessment, Miss Parkinson," Narcissa says drily.  

"Not scandalised at all," Pansy says, not quite managing to slip her cool demeanour back on. "Just a little surprised by your... choices of dinner attire." Her eyes are wandering again. Narcissa _knew_ she looked good, but Parkinson's distraction at the sight of her adds a layer of reassurance. Strokes her ego in a way that, much like an intimate touch, always feels better when performed by another.

A delicate cough from Draco has both Narcissa and Pansy turning their heads to look at him. _He_ does look scandalised, though he isn't about to say anything that might insult his mother. Narcissa regrets that circumstances have made him feel this way—but really, it's Draco's own friend who is responsible.

 

 

A few evenings later, Pansy and Draco leave the house to go Merlin-knows-where. Narcissa has stopped asking, but she's a strong suspicion that the two of them frequent Muggle nightclubs, and queer ones at that. She considered minding, when it first started—but it was one of the only times Draco would leave the house, and it wasn't like he could be photographed doing anything that would lower most people's opinions of him any more than being branded with the Dark Lord's mark, or letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts. His sexuality might even gain him a little sympathy from the righteous light.

Tonight, Draco is wearing denim. It doesn't look terrible on him; his slim figure and aristocratic features make his class clear no matter his attire. Parkinson is wearing a very small leather skirt and a t-shirt emblazoned with symbols and illegible writing. _It's a Muggle band she likes,_ Draco once explained about a similar shirt, so Narcissa assumes the same is true here. She won't ask. She won't care enough to.

"Be safe," she tells them as they 'sneak' out.

"Yes, Mother," Draco sighs, not pausing on his path out the door.

"We'll be sure to use protection," says Pansy, glibly—and then Draco does turn around, so that he can hit her lightly on the shoulder and make a baby-bear scowly face he inherited directly from Lucius.

Narcissa sets alarms on both front door and floo in case they return that night, but they don't.

 

They return the following evening, thoroughly unwashed. Pansy shrugs off the bomber jacket Draco was wearing on their way out and dumps it unceremoniously on the floor of the foyer. She lifts one foot and then the other removing her strappy heels and casting a quick healing charm at her feet, which are ribbed with red marks and dirt. When she lifts her shirt over her head, Narcissa turns away—though not before she's glimpsed the glossy black snake tattoo that curls around Pansy's tanned torso, the crop of purple pansies growing just beneath her ribs on the right side, the glinting edge of what might either be diamonds or stars.

"There are plenty of private rooms for that," she reminds Pansy.

"Moley!" cries Pansy, unnecessarily loud as the house elves needn't be within earshot to be summoned.

"Moley is here, Miss Pansy," the elf says when she appears. She eyes the growing pile of filthy clothing on the floor. "Moley will be taking Miss Pansy's laundry, please."

Pansy nods assent, and the elf does her work.

Parkinson stands before them in her skirt, bare feet and a green lacy bra that matches the emeralds in her ears and—Narcissa sniffs at the sight—nose, _and_ navel. The shining tattoos are definitely stars, she notes. They're not arranged in a constellation, though, just dotted between the pansies and the underwire of Parkinson's bra. Some of them look different, as if they've been done by different tattooists, or at least on different occasions. A collection of some sort, then. They're rather more artful than Narcissa previously believed. They could be at home under the skin of a Black, she thinks, though she still has no desire for that Black to be her.

Moley reappears with a dressing gown, plush and white and clean. Narcissa is already cringing at the thought of all the dirt Pansy has picked up on her sweaty, Muggle night-time escapades meeting the pristine material when Pansy waves the gown away.

"Just prepare me a nice, bubbly bath, would you? I'll go straight there."

Moley nods, wide-eyed, and then pops off again.

"I'm going to sleep," Draco declares with a yawn. His eyes are bloodshot and shadowed, his hair limp and greasy as though hands—his, but perhaps not his alone—have been run through it all night. "I'll do it on the floor if I have to."

"The floors are clean, darling," says Narcissa, looking him up and down with soft disapproval. "You may bathe, or you may sleep in the garden."

Draco, the poor boy, is so utterly wrung out he actually, visibly weighs these options for a long moment.

"Oi, Moley!" Parkinson shouts again.

"Moley is doing Miss Pansy's bath as requested!"

"Run another while you're at it. He can take the first one," Pansy points a thumb at Draco, who is drooping beside her like a pole bean that has outgrown its stake, "so save the bubbles. He won't appreciate them."

It is good, Narcissa is forced to admit, to see Draco in the mood to sleep. It takes an awful lot to work the manic gleam out of his eyes, the jitter from his hands—and Parkinson is one of few people with the means and the will to look after him this way. She gives Pansy a pass for the inappropriate stripping. Anything to see Draco taken care of.

 

 

The days keep going by without either of them explicitly discussing their little feud. Pansy has so far kept up well for such an inexperienced player, recovering quickly and smoothly enough from any moments she is caught off guard to avoid any real forfeiture.

When Narcissa arrives at breakfast wearing one of Pansy's indecipherable Muggle music shirts, Pansy knocks over a glass of pumpkin juice and Narcissa inwardly celebrates the victory as a general laying siege to a city would celebrate the fall of a gate. Narcissa casts a wandless cleaning charm before Moley or whichever elf is not presently caught up with making lunch for the day can appear and take care of the mess.

"Are you quite alright?" Narcissa asks, brows drawn in a performance of concern (though not so much that it could contribute to any frown lines).

"I'm fine," Pansy replies. "Still a bit sleepy, perhaps. We had a late one. It was sixties night at the Flaming Phoenix."

Narcissa breathes evenly through her surprise. "That sounds like a wizarding establishment," she says.

Pansy smiles sharply, and takes a sip of her fresh glass of juice. "It is. Nice place, actually. Better firewhiskey than you'd expect. You should come with us sometime."

Draco drops his butter knife to the marble floor with an echoing clatter. He actually bends down to retrieve it, a sure sign that he wants out of the conversation. Reluctantly, he pulls himself up and looks with bulging eyes between his friend and his mother.

"I'm not sure you'd enjoy it," he says faintly. "The crowd is mainly..."

"Young?" Narcissa suggests, narrowing her eyes at her son.

"Queer," Pansy puts in.

"And?" Narcissa turns a nonplussed look on her.

Parkinson's mouth stalls mid-answer.

"The music is very loud. And modern," Draco goes on. "And the dancing is as far from traditional as it's possible to—"

"I'll think about it," Narcissa declares. "Thank you for the invitation, Pansy."

"You're welcome," Pansy says. There's a squeak in her voice.

 

"What the _hell_ , Pansy?" Narcissa overhears Draco muttering later on. She stops on the other side of the door, breathing silently. "You can't just invite my mother to the club with us!"

"Calm down. It isn't like she'll ever actually _come_."

"You don't know what she'll actually do! You should never have started this— this _duel_ with her in the first place!"

Pansy snorts. "Always the fucking drama queen. It's not a _duel_ , Merlin, just a bit of harmless flirting."

Narcissa feels her eyebrows rising without permission. She lowers them deliberately. Can't have her forehead creasing over an expression no one is here to see. _Flirting_. Somehow hearing their exchanges described as such is different than interpreting the winks and suggestive remarks for herself.

"Flirting!" Draco, predictably, explodes. Narcissa has tried to teach him subtlety in his reactions, tried to teach him how to resist the bait laid by prickly people like Pansy Parkinson—but he is too much like Lucius. Sometimes she loves him for it, other times despite it.

" _Why_ would you _flirt_ with _my mother_?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Pansy asks, and Narcissa can imagine the growing redness in Draco's cheeks. "Cissa's a babe. Do you know if she's _completely_ straight, or—"

"No. _No_ no no."

"—it's not like I'm trying to become your new dad, Draco. Loosen up."

Narcissa hears the first hexes flying and makes a quick exit from the area.

 

 

The portrait of Alexia Walkin Black stares down at Narcissa. Narcissa takes a sip of Earl Grey and looks up at the wall coolly.

"So," she says. "How have you been since we last spoke?"

"I've been just the same, child. Stop asking," the portrait croaks irritably. The old hag has always liked Narcissa, though. _Headstrong girl_ , she used to say when Narcissa was a child. _Don't marry that Malfoy boy, he'll only waste your time._ Narcissa still doesn't agree, but all the same she felt a tingle of satisfaction when informing Alexia of her separation from Lucius. _Better late than never_.

"You have grown, though. You look tired now."

"Thank you," Narcissa rolls her eyes. "You look spritely."

The old woman, painted on her deathbed, cracks a smile that slices into the leathery, yellowed skin of her face. "I'll still be here after you're dead," she tells Narcissa.

"And when I'm dead and you're here I will still be the handsomer of us two."

Alexia lets out one of her crinkling-paper laughs. "Perhaps. But if beauty were everything, you wouldn't have come to me for advice."

"No," Narcissa laughs too. She has always enjoyed the frankness of this portrait. Alexia Walkin was, as Narcissa discovered some years ago, less concerned with Black family proliferation than she was with honing a sharp wit and stealing the fiancées and wives of boring rich wizards away to her own boudoir.

"I've found myself in a peculiar situation with one of my son's friends," Narcissa begins, and then unloads the rest of the story on the portrait, who listens interestedly from amongst her coarse-looking bedsheets until the explanation is complete.

"Do you want this girl out of your house, or in your bed?" Alexia asks, and Narcissa can see the hope in her eyes.

"Out of my house," she answers. "Sorry to disappoint. At least, I _think_ that is what I want."

" _I_ think you're enjoying yourself with her here, even if it's just to spar with," Alexia says, adopting her Wise Old Crone voice.

"She is infuriating," Narcissa protests, but even as she says it she knows the truth of this statement doesn't actually counteract the truth of Alexia's. "Things are interesting, though."

"This house is awfully large when it's empty."

"That doesn't mean I should fill it with hippogriffs."

"Not _hippogriffs_ , no," Alexia sneers at the suggestion. "Have you ever tried to play with one of those creatures? Terrible. No sense of humour."

Like Alexia Walkin, Narcissa thinks, Pansy Parkinson is proud—but not like hippogriffs are proud, and not like so many purebloods have been.

 

 

It's eleven in the morning and Pansy is mixing her own cocktails rather than leaving it to the house elves, which Narcissa takes as a damning indication of the alcohol-to-juice ratio.

"Want one?" Pansy asks when she takes note of Narcissa's presence.

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself. Draco and I are pre-drinking for afternoon tea with Blaise and Astoria. You can't even imagine how awful it'd be to do it sober, but it's worth reconnecting with the few who've never declared either their support for the Dark Lord or their undying hatred of him and me."

"Astoria Greengrass?" Narcissa asks, surprised. She's never known Draco to be interested in either of the Greengrass daughters, no matter how useful they would be to have as allies.

"I don't know any other Astorias who might have tea with us, do you?" Pansy cocks a brow and keeps pouring clear Muggle liquor into the jug even as she meets Narcissa's eyes.

"I am merely surprised."

"Because Draco never had much motivation to get to know her when you were shoving him at her as a potential wife? I'm can't say _I'm_ surprised. And it isn't surprising that Astoria would accept _my_ invitation to tea, considering how hot she thinks I am. Older, pureblood Slytherin girl with a wicked tongue and a killer wardrobe? Who wouldn't be into that?"

The way Pansy speaks, the double meaning is almost subtle enough to slip by. It's the sideways flicker of her eyes over Narcissa's form that makes it unmistakeable.

Narcissa swallows. "And are you?" she asks.

"Am I into older, pureblood Slytherin girls?"

"Are you interested in Miss Greengrass."

"Oh," Pansy shrugs. "Maybe. She's cute. A little clingy, though that's sort of nice considering that to most people I'm a sinking bloody ship."

"Sinking, but not sunk. Lucius and I recovered from more after the Dark Lord's first rise to power. Lucius cannot patch his reputation up a second time, but you and Draco are both young. You can rebuild, and when you next sail you can avoid those rocks."

"We'll see." The doubt in Pansy's voice puts an ache in Narcissa's heart. The sensation is tempered but not overcome when Pansy adds, "by the way, I've had Moley buy crates of tequila, vodka, white rum and gin."

 

If Pansy is comfortable spending Narcissa's money and meddling in her wardrobe, then it can only be logical that she is comfortable with Narcissa doing the same in return. She isn't going to spend Pansy's money, not only because the girl doesn't have any, but because Narcissa has no wish to lower herself to stealing when she has a respectable fortune of her own. Pansy's wardrobe, however, is a different matter.

After Draco and Pansy leave for their meeting with Zabini and Greengrass, Narcissa makes her way  into the room adjacent to Draco's, where Pansy has been storing her things during her extended stay. Everything in there is disorganised. Even so, it isn't difficult to find a shirt that will work. Pansy's larger chest means that she and Narcissa amount to more or less the same size on top. On the bottom, however, it becomes clear that Pansy favours garments so tight Narcissa cannot do up those she can pull on at all. There are skirts with cutting waistbands and ragged hems, and denims so torn they might as well not exist at all. There are multiple fishnet garments, which Narcissa does not fancy, and a small scrap of glossy midnight blue leather she chooses not to examine too closely.

It is a relief when she stumbles upon a pair of trousers which are made from fabric that stretches, have a loose waistband with a drawstring, and, but for a small tear at the knee, cover her legs from hip to ankle as trousers ought to do. They are outrageously comfortable, and Muggle without a shred of doubt.

The softness of the trousers triggers all manner of indecorous urges; Narcissa goes to the sitting room which houses the superior bookshelves and sprawls across the settee in there, legs spread wide as she sinks limply into the cushions. She came out of the womb with better posture—and yet there is something thrilling about this abandonment of everything she has ever been taught. When she tires of this position, she pulls her feet up _onto the seat_ and lies back. The clothes are so comfortable, and the light on this side of the house so pleasantly gentle that she cannot resist closing her eyes for a moment.

It is thus that she is discovered by Pansy.

Pansy's loud "holy fuck" is what wakes her, and when she opens her eyes she sees _hunger_ on Pansy's face. "Are those _my joggers_?"

"Don't be ridiculous, my mother would never—" Draco is saying from just beyond the doorway as he catches up with his friend. He trails off when he takes Narcissa in, soft grey trousers and loose white shirt and bare feet. "—wear joggers," Draco finishes, aghast. The look on his face almost makes Narcissa want to apologise to him. She doesn't, of course.

"I need you to keep those, Narcissa," Pansy blurts out. "You can't even— you can't _possibly_ know how good you look in them."

Narcissa is usually quite aware of how good she looks, but as she is not yet accustomed to the aesthetic of the joggers (the feel of them, she has accepted far more readily) she supposes that she might not fully understand what Pansy is seeing.

She reclines a little further and levels Pansy with a stare. The girl's face remains open, the look of wanting naked upon it.

"Out," interrupts Draco. His tone reminds Narcissa, as Draco's manner so often does, of a young Lucius. She had liked to hide her husband's fancy snake cane just to hear that same sputtering indignation. She had been disappointed when Lucius had begun meeting the game with coldness instead.

"I beg your pardon?" Narcissa asks gently, when it becomes clear Draco isn't yet up to explaining himself unprompted.

"I said _out_." He is looking at Pansy. "I need you to leave, Pans. You've been here three weeks and I need— I need some space."

Pansy is trying valiantly not to look disappointed. "Whatever," she says. "When do you think you'll be able to handle my company again?"

"I— I'll have to let you know."

"Oh," Pansy frowns at him, then. "So that's how it is."

 _Stay_. The word is on the tip of Narcissa's tongue. She is unsure of how it has come so close to being said, and, simultaneously, of how she has managed not to say it.

She looks at her son, though, and his tired eyes and the anxiety etched into his face, his posture, the hands he absently wrings whenever they are not otherwise occupied.

"You will be welcome once more when Draco wishes for you," she tells Pansy. "Moley will help you with your bags."

 

 

With Pansy gone, it is quiet. The house feels very still; empty of momentum and motivation. There is nothing to push back against. Narcissa mills around drinking tea and chatting with portraits, reading all the wizarding newspapers and sending off a few incisive letters to their editors. None of it satisfies like the spark in an opponent's eye across a well set dining table.

Draco, meanwhile, broods in his room most of the day and then strides down the stairs and out the front door in the evenings. When he returns, nightclub attire looking ragged and wrong in the soft morning light, he goes to brood some more. The cycle seems unending. Narcissa has lived by pattern and prescription for too many of her years.

She takes to wearing the joggers around the house. She even leaves home in them once, by accident—and when the world neglects to end in protest, she wears them out knowingly.

Narcissa reflects on the silliness of her _missing_ the presence of a rough-mannered woman half her age, but self-awareness does little to actually change the feeling. She finds herself wondering what exactly it is that she misses; what it is that she wants from Pansy. What Pansy wants from her is not clear either, though there are better clues to the second mystery than the first.

When a strange owl arrives with a package, Narcissa and her house elves scan it for malicious spells and substances for ten minutes before she finally letts her curiosity overcome her apprehension.

Inside the wrapping there is a note: _Won my trust fund back with minimal bloodshed. I'd portkey to Paris immediately if only I had someone to shop with._

Under the scrap of parchment, neatly folded, is a pair of joggers in rich-looking black fabric. _A token of thanks for your hospitality,_ the note's postscript explains.

It has been a while since Narcissa last visited Paris.

"Wait there," she instructs the owl, and goes to find a quill.

**Author's Note:**

> A tiny, sequelly drabble exists [over here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13313280/chapters/30470271/).


End file.
